


frozen petals

by skyywards



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: AHAHAHA, Angst, F/F, Fluff, angela takes her in, apologies her name is angela, banshee moira, cough, eventually, half-witch mercy, have fun, le based on a book i once read but damn i forgot help, moira needs love and affection and a warm home, she's that poor woman living on the street with a gag so she won't wail, sigh, things will get spicy, what have you expected from me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-06 21:38:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16395563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyywards/pseuds/skyywards
Summary: It’s a small cottage nestled in a grove of snow-covered pine trees and shrubs. The house looks to be taken well care of, as there are no holes in the roof and none of the windows are damaged. Warm light shines through the glass, warmth radiates off the cottage and warmth is what lives inside, walls shielding its inhabitant from the icy wind outside.The homeliness of it is what attracts the creature of the night, of death. It’s been centuries since she’s last been welcomed into a home – Banshees aren’t the most popular among all creatures, especially since they’re sad, sullen, dead creatures to wail upon a person’s soon-to-happen death.





	1. erstens

It’s a small cottage nestled in a grove of snow-covered pine trees and shrubs. The house looks to be taken well care of, as there are no holes in the roof and none of the windows are damaged. Warm light shines through the glass, warmth radiates off the cottage and warmth is what lives inside, walls shielding its inhabitant from the icy wind outside. 

The homeliness of it is what attracts the creature of the night, of death. It’s been centuries since she’s last been welcomed into a home – Banshees aren’t the most popular among all creatures, especially since they’re sad, sullen, dead creatures to wail upon a person’s soon-to-happen death. 

Banshees are hated, as they unwillingly and uncontrollably drive people into madness or kill them instantly with a single cry. 

And so the banshee that peeks through the window carefully has been gagged, a dusty cloth pulled over the entirety of her mouth and nearly going past her chin, knotted together at the back of her head. It’s better than being at fault for someone’s death as they hear her cry. It’s better than being at fault for someone’s madness as they hear her wail. 

She blinks slowly, glowing white sockets shining as they examine the room as far as she can see. A woof, deafened by the walls and windows, echoes through the cottage, another and another, paws hasty on the ground and a large German Shepherd comes to a halt before the window that the banshee glances through. 

Her attention is instantly on the canine as its tongue flops out of its jaw, ears straightened up and pointing towards the ceiling. Another woof. The banshee retreats from the window, even though the mutt doesn’t seem like it’s going to attack her. It looks curious, nothing more. A voice, angelic, follows the dog, a female. “Shush!” Muffled words that the creature outside cannot make out. The mutt hurries to the door and begins to scratch at it, again, “Hush, stop that!” - But then the door opens as the dog’s owner decides to check what her dog is on about and the female peeks out, her dog panting proudly as he woofs at the banshee quietly. 

Her mother, god bless her soul, had always told her that once in a blue moon, once in a while, people may surprise her. And one day, people may even take her breath away. The banshee never understood. 

But as she looks down at the young woman, she thinks she might understand. Hair that looks like it’s spun of gold. Eyes bluer and clearer than the cloudless firmament above during daytime – though she barely remembers daytime, there is no thing such as light in her life and the woman that has opened the door looks like she’s made of light, she looks like an angel. Skin peachy and smooth, not a freckle to dust her cheeks, not a wrinkle to knit her face. Rosy lips. 

Absolutely flawless. 

Her hair is falling into her face, flipped over the right side of it, most of it covered by a worn ... hat-like object, it looks like it’s made of wool. “Oh,” she mutters as she looks the woman standing at her window like a pathetic strayed cat over. “What can I do for you?” The accent her voice carries is foreign, Moira doesn’t believe she’s ever heard it before. Though, she’s so old, been straying through the nights for so long that she may have simply – forgotten. 

Instead of saying something, she looks at her, takes her in, standing proud and tall – yet. Her joints crack at the motion, it doesn’t hurt. She feels empty, yet so alive. It feels like dying and living at the same time. 

The blonde tilts her head, examines her face, eyes slowly skimming downwards to check her over. “You look like you could … use a little help.” At first, the banshee does not quite grasp the reason the other says such, but after a moment, she realizes that she’s likely to refer to the shackles at her feet and wrists, though those at her wrists are loose, merely used as an adornment. 

And indeed: the blonde bends down, utters something under her breath and they fall loose, exposing the blueish skin beneath. A second later, she stands, the heavy metal in her slender hands. “And what’s your name?” 

Moira considers telling her that she forgot. She considers telling her a lie, because this woman is clearly a witch – or she knows a few spells that friends have taught her … But she sees no reason to, as hasn’t tried anything that would mean something bad for her (yet), and so her lips part and the word is muffled against the gag quietly, “Moira.” 

 

She watches her for another moment curiously, and then she smiles. “Ancient ...” Moira seconds that, she nods. “Oh! I nearly forgot, where are my manners – my name is Angela.” 

Moira furrows her brows sceptically, but she nods, still unsure – where is the woman going with this? What are her intentions, would she send her away? Likely.

“Come in, you must be frozen to the core,” Angela suggests and pats her mutt’s head with her free hand, slender fingers intertwining with its soft fur, stroking over its back and giving it a pat to signal it to go back inside. 

The wooden floor creaks with every step that Moira takes as she steps inside to stand in the middle of the room and Angela closes the door behind themselves. The walls are decorated with ornaments that are made of wood and leaves and whatnot, shelves adorning every inch that isn’t decorated or a window is in the way, shelves that are full of dusty books, thick books, thin books, small books, large books, books that look like they’re about to fall apart if you just breathe too harshly, books that still have that typically book smell – freshly bought, the ink and paper still able to fill your nostrils, and then there’s a couch, a kitchenette and there’s a carpet on the floor, a dark red, round thing to stand on when sitting in the worn leather armchair or on the sofa nearby. 

“Stay here, I’ll get you a blanket real quick. Oh, and that’s Muffin. She won’t hurt you, she wouldn’t hurt a fly! She’s friendly, I promise.” Angela shoots her a smile and hurries up the wooden stairs to what Moira assumes are her sleeping chambers. 

Fear crawls up her spine, what if Angela’s just putting on a show for her and would come back down with a weapon to stab her or try to kill her otherwise – the dog would be of magnificent help with that. Before she can continue pondering if it had been a smart idea to enter the cottage, a cold, wet snout is pressed against her calf. She looks down in surprise, at … Muffin, as Angela had introduced the canine. 

Muffin sniffs and whimpers and decides to go elsewhere. Moira wishes she could smile against the gag. Surely she doesn’t have the most … enjoyable smell. Especially not for a dog. 

Angela is quick to return with, as promised, a soft, light blue blanket, pushing the thick fabric into Moira’s hands and helping her to sit down and curl up into it. “See, that’s a lot better already …” And she scurries off to the kitchen while Moira’s captured in a blanket that warms her surprisingly well, but she bunches it around her waist, legs crossed on the large armchair, when Angela returns with two steaming mugs of tea for herself and her visitor as well as a few treats for the canine as it lays on the sofa, licking her hand happily as she’s given the best of all best things: treats. 

“I assume you wear the gag because you want to, am I right in doing so?” Angela asks after a few sips and a few moments of silence between them. Moira nods. She could take off the gag whenever she pleases, but it’s a restriction that goes back to the fifteenth century, when this cloth had been forced upon her, and she’d decided to keep it on. If she ever were to take it off, the boundary would be gone and she’d never put it on again. And then, everything would begin anew, the crying, wailing, the angry, dead, manic people around herself, she doesn’t want to displeasure anyone and so she decided to keep it on. 

“You can take it off if you want to, otherwise I’ll drink your tea. I’m not forcing you.” Moira shakes her head and clutches the mug close. She won’t drink. But she’ll gladly hold it, to gain at least a little warmth. When the banshee doesn’t try to take her own gag off, Angela lets it be and continues sipping her tea in silence. 

Muffin whimpers comfortably, rolling onto her back and panting up at Angela expectantly. Without a split second of hesitation, Angela extends a hand to rub her dog’s stomach. Moira watches the silent interaction in awe and understands that the blonde wouldn’t do anything to her, much less the absolutely tame dog next to her. 

Her lips tug into what might possibly be a tiny smile behind the cloth and she lifts a hand to comb back her hair as it falls into her face. 

That’s how the rest of the night passes, Angela keeps petting her dog, drinks Moira’s tea as well once it has cooled down so much as to not warm her hands anymore, helps Moira to find a comfortable way of sleeping by bringing her a pillow and another blanket for the night. But before she may lay down to get the rest that she doesn’t really require, she insists on readying a bath for the banshee. 

Moira can only smile and nod and sink into the unusual heat of the water that smells of mint, foam-mountains around herself and she closes her eyelids and relishes in the warmth. 

It feels way too good. 

Angela has left her a towel and some other clothes that she hopes would fit her gangly form at least halfway well and wished her a good night before she’d left the banshee for herself. “Don’t spook around,” she’d jokingly added and shot her another soft smile. And then she’d closed the door and talked to her dog outside and a moment later, footsteps echoed down the hallway, followed by the tap-tap-tap-tap of the dog’s paws. 

But even as good as it feels to be welcomed somewhere, accepted, cared for, especially when in such a state of neglect, she can’t hold back the tears that flood her eyes and spill down her cheeks hotly. She doesn’t wail, doesn’t sob, she can’t do that. Even though the cloth restricts most of her voice, it doesn’t hold back all of it, and so Moira must be careful as to not accidentally kill whoever hears her cry. 

It feels good, but she feels like she doesn’t deserve such dedication and adoration, such warmth to surround her. But she’s selfish enough to stay in the bathtub until it cooled down, she tells herself it’s to not to waste Angela’s efforts. Wrapped into her towel, she dries herself off, rubs her hair dry and slips into the clothes Angela brought her, a too-small hoodie with little flowers on it and too-short joggings. She pulls the waistband tight, knots it together and sinks into the hoodie’s warmth. 

Odd clothes, she’s never worn this before, but certainly warm and thick enough to keep her stable. 

She exits the bathroom after folding the towel neatly and placing it down on the toilet seat and letting the water escape the bathtub by pulling out the plug. 

Looking the hallway down left and right, she glances at the door that Angela must be in along with Muffin, and to the stairway to take her to her makeshift bed. But she can’t complain, she couldn’t if she wanted to, this is heaven on earth, it’s warm, she smells like mint and oranges from the shampoo, she has clean clothes (except for the gag) and she has a makeshift bed to lay on and blankets to keep her warm. 

She really has no right to complain, regarding the fact that Angela has allowed her to come in even when seeing her in a devastating state as she’d been in, rotten and frozen to the core. And not even the mutt had tried to bite off a limb of hers. 

It’s honestly better than anything she could have ever wished for, and Angela does not even seem to wish for anything, she does not seem to want to have something from her, like she only does this for her because she sees a use in a banshee that’s more than thousand years old. Though perhaps, Moira is simply too blinded by all these things that happen to her, all these particularly good things she’s offered. 

However, she does not decide to think about this now. For now, she’s allowed to rest and that she will. Carefully, she tip-toes down the stairs to not to make a sound and disturb Angela’s process of falling asleep. She crosses the room and curls up into her blanket and pillow, a large ball with only her forehead and nose peeking out one she’s done covering herself. 

And it’s unsurprisingly not long until her eyelids grow heavy and she sinks into the deep darkness of sleep and dreams.


	2. zweitens

The morning after couldn’t be any more  
awkward. Well, Moira supposes the best thing about it is that Angela doesn’t start to scream at the sight of a pretty tame banshee on her sofa and that she hasn’t forgotten that she took her in yesterday. Though, if Moira had been in Angela’s shoes, she doubts she would have forgotten about such an occurrence.

 

 

 

“Good morning,” Angela says as she descends the stairs to walk towards the kitchen. Moira doesn’t reply, only looks at her and at Muffin as she jumps towards herself. It takes her a moment to understand what the canine wants, with the wagging tail and the way she pushes her snout against Moira’s hand, the bandaged one. She lifts her palm to press it against Muffin’s head, scratching in between her ears.

 

 

 

She catches Angela staring at them, she quickly pulls her hand away. Even though she’s clean, she doesn’t know if the blonde would tolerate her petting her dog. “I don’t mind,” Angela is quick to say, as though she’s read her mind. “I’ve just been wondering if you’d eat anything.” Moira shakes her head in response.  
She hasn’t eaten in centuries, it’s not  
necessary for her to do so, nor does she require sleep. She’s dead, only able to walk and talk because her soul isn’t dead. But if someone were to check her pulse, they wouldn’t find anything. Not anymore. There had once been a time in which a soft beat would pulse through her veins and against her ribcage. But it’s been so long that Moira doesn’t even remember what it’s like to live, to feel alive. To feel in general. The emotions she has are reduced. She doesn’t know why, but she assumes it’s because of the current state she’s in: half dead, half alive.

 

 

 

Angela huffs a sigh. “Are you sure?  
I’m sorry, I don’t know much about your … species? If that’s what I can call it?” Moira looks up. She wants to tell her that she hasn’t been born a banshee, she wants to tell her that she’s been cursed as a human thousand and twenty-one years ago, cursed to be a banshee. Witches had existed even then, and lucky for Moira now (as she still suspects that Angela is a witch), they had been even crueller than nowadays. Modern world, she assumes. She’s lucky to not have stumbled upon an illusional home that’s actually a witch’s hut and what gruesome things would happen to her instead of this –

 

 

She remembers that Angela is still looking at her expectantly. But still, what is she supposed to do? She can’t talk, won’t talk. So she shakes her head again. Born in a time in which women weren’t equal to men, she has never gone to school and therefore, she’s never learned how to write or read – that changed to an extent when she met a halfway nice witch. She’d lived with her for a while, until the village they’d lived in rebelled and banned her from their region. That witch had been like Angela (thus far), but always a little stricter and she’d smiled less and given less.

 

 

 

But she’d given her the ability to read a few words and taught her half the alphabet in exchange to her ancient knowledge about witchcraft and history. Moira doubts that it would be enough to write her story down for Angela, plus, it’s been a few centuries since she last wrote and read. She used to read newspapers to get time to tick on faster and had only understood a little of what was written,  
but those times are over, as newspapers have grown out of fashion and had been  
replaced with these little glowing devices everyone owns nowadays. Moira isn’t familiar with those, but they caught her interest a few times already. She wants to know how they work, but it’s not like  
she could ask anyone.

 

 

 

Angela sighs at the way Moira stares ahead blankly, eyes her worriedly. “Are you alright?” Moira nods slowly and rests her chin atop her knees, continuing to play with Muffin’s ears idly. “You don’t look like it …” That causes Moira to smile against her gag in the slightest, she brushes back her grey hair and looks Angela dead in the eye. Again, she nods, firmer, to assure her. She’s fine, she’s great, but she wonders what Angela would expect from her in exchange for taking care of her.

 

 

 

Blonde eyebrows furrow, but she nods, accepting Moira’s statement. She wonders if the banshee will ever leave her again or if she decided to move in with Angela if she will allow. She wonders what life is like as a banshee, though when she just looks at the gag that she willingly  
leaves on, her gut twists in discomfort. It surely doesn’t look very pleasant. Angela is one to talk a lot and it’s odd for her to have a visitor that doesn’t talk, and  
it would be even odder for her to not be allowed to talk. She wouldn’t manage. She likes to spread warmth, especially through smiles and soothing words, if that were taken from her, she’d shatter.

 

 

 

Angela does not mind the banshee’s presence thus far. She seems like she’s been through a lot and Angela would be all too happy to give her some warmth. Most creatures (mainly fairies) that she has found injured on her walks through the forest nearby have left her after some time, she’s enjoyed the time she spent with them, but they have explained that their place is in the forest and with their family, not in the comfortable cottage they’ve spent a good few weeks in. Angela would usually cure them and then they’d leave. Moira isn’t injured. Well, the bandage at her arm makes Angela question that, but she doesn’t seem  
injured. Maybe it’s decoration. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t even know why on earth a banshee is sitting on her sofa, perfectly silent and playing with her dog, who really seems to like the extra affection slash attention.

 

 

 

She asks herself why she came here. Life as a banshee must be horribly lonesome, that much she can read out of Moira’s actions and behaviour. Maybe that’s what drove her here. The funny thing about it is that she hasn’t dared to knock on her door, but that Angela invited her in. Or maybe, Angela ponders, that’s the sad thing. Maybe she’s learned her lesson: to stay away from humans, as they seem to have banned her from everywhere. Maybe the cloth she pulled over her mouth has been forced upon her. Maybe she’s been afraid of being hurt if she’d knock. Maybe that’s why she’s been so hesitant.

 

 

 

But Angela doesn’t mind. Maybe Moira isn’t injured outwardly, a broken bone or whatever, maybe she suffers from  
heart- and soul-ache. The longer she watches Moira interact with the mutt, the  
more plausible that becomes. Maye she just needs a long-time love therapy.

 

 

 

She quietly makes her way over to the solemn creature and sits down by  
her side. Moira doesn’t dare look up. She’s a lot like Muffin was when she found her. Shivering and with a broken leg, the pup had crawled through the snow in a particularly harsh winter. Angela assumes that Muffin must have gotten lost or separated from her family, and until anyone would come to look for her, she’d taken her in to fix her leg and pamper her with affection. Nobody had ever come. Angela wouldn’t give her away anymore. She wouldn’t give her away to anyone, not even the rightful owner. Moira is like her, but she doesn’t whimper around and she doesn’t press her nose into Angela’s stomach and padding around on her  
lap before curling up.

 

 

 

That would be plenty amusing and at the same time, really weird. Angela  
lifts a hand to pull down the collar of Moira’s (Angela’s) hoodie. The banshee stiffens, stops her movements, looks at her questioningly. She looks like she’s about to jump five foot far. What has Angela to do with her throat? Her fingertips brush against the rusty shackle that’s chained around her throat. “What did they do?” Angela asks. Her laryngeal prominence bulges against the metal  
momentarily as she swallows hard. What a dumb question to ask, Angela realizes,  
as it could not be any more obvious. What does she expect Moira to say? That  
they chained a shackle around her throat, as it obviously is?

 

 

 

“I’m sorry,” Angela says quickly after, “that was a dumb question.” Moira nods. Angela manages a chuckle at her agreement. Moira doesn’t think it’s funny at all. Angela’s sure she wouldn’t laugh about it if she had a chain around her throat, either. “Do you want me to take it off?” White sockets narrow, the light that shines becoming less. How, Moira wants to ask, how would you take it off? The same way you took off the shackles at my feet? How did you do that?

 

 

 

But she can’t ask that, so she only nods, please take them off. She can’t see what Angela’s doing but she sure as hell isn’t clicking open the lock with a picklock that she magically slipped out of her sleeve. A  
breath, and the metal is in Angela’s hands. “How old this must be,” Angela  
utters in what Moira identifies as a hint of awe. Ancient, she recalls Angela’s word. Maybe there is something she would require from her in the end, after all. Ancient knowledge, just like all the other witches that have taken her in. She’s like them all, even after all the centuries, witches haven’t changed.

 

 

 

Her thoughts are grim and her face mirrors her thoughts, darkening a  
little, her eyes dropping and a small wrinkle appears on her forehead, next to  
her eyebrows. A thumb brushes over the space the shackle had covered, so pale  
it might be white, just like the rings at her feet. Ancient, Moira thinks. It must have been around the same time they pulled this ugly rag over her mouth. Chained her into a basement for her to rot. She’d broken out by the help of a few rats living in the same little cell as her. Those had been some times.

 

 

 

She doesn’t want to remember any of it.

 

 

 

“You’re sure you  
don’t want to eat something?” Angela asks again and her voice is softer than silk as she does, so soothing, so gentle.  
Moira can’t bring herself to look at her when she nods. Yes, she’s sure. Her stomach twists and churns in longing and despair when Angela pulls her thumb away and gets up wordlessly. Muffin whines and pushes her head back into Moira’s hand. She goes back to scratching behind her ears absentmindedly.

 

 

 

The following days pass quite similar. Each day, Angela would check on  
her and make sure she’s alright, they’d sit together in silence some times and some other times, Angela would talk and talk like a waterfall and leave Moira stunned – she’s never heard anyone talk that fast  
and that much ever before. It’s a good  
thing, though, something that contrasts drastically to her usual daily routine.  
Angela would ask her questions and never receive a verbal answer, she’d babble away while cooking, she’d start ranting about Muffin’s reckless behaviour when she once jumped at Moira so heavily the banshee lost control and landed on her back on the parquet with a large German Shepherd on top of her. It’s soothing and it makes Moira happy, in a way, that Angela talks to her.

 

 

 

And with each day, Moira doesn’t believe  
that Angela would use her to her avail, to her benefit. She keeps her gag on and her eyes low, but oddly enough, she starts to want to do something that would help Angela. She wants to help her with her daily tasks that she fulfils well enough, but despite that, she feels this need to assist her. After a week, Angela’s surprised to find Moira carefully checking the microwave over, turning the handles and jumping as it thrums to life with nothing spinning inside it.

 

 

 

A giggle from the stairway as the banshee tries to reverse whatever she’s just done is what makes her halt and look up. Her gaze resembles one of a five-year-old that’s messed up and tries to apologize  
silently. Angela walks over and turns the small wheel the other way, resetting  
the time of five seconds that Moira set. “This is for when you have cold food and have to warm it up,” she explains. “You put the food on a plate, place it in there and shut the door. And then you set the time on how long you want it to warm up. It’s a mechanism. It would have beeped  
when finished if I hadn’t reset it.”

 

 

 

Moira listens and nods, confused but desperate to not to let it show. Angela laughs at the face she pulls. “You don’t have to understand, it’s not so important. You just turn the wheel when you want to warm something cold up. Food, that is. You can’t put yourself in there, it’s too small and there’s radiation.”

 

 

 

That doesn’t help Moira at all, but she nods again. She doesn’t understand, but if Angela says she won’t need it, she’s sure that she speaks the truth. Angela smiles at her warmly. “If you want to help, you can …” She looks around the room, trying to find something for Moira to do. Her eyes land on Muffin’s mussed fur. “… brush Muffin off, she’s been playing outside again and now she’s all dirty  
and tousled. Let me get you a brush.” Angela darts off to her bedroom to retrieve the required object while Moira walks over and sits down by the dog’s side, plucking snowflakes that haven’t molten yet out of her black fur.

 

 

 

Angela sits down next to her moments later and shows her how to brush  
her off properly. “Always in this direction, away from her head and towards her tail. Same goes for the sides. Otherwise it’s uncomfortable for her.” She hands the brush over and Moira mimics the way Angela demonstrated it, brushing dried  
pieces of mud out of her fur. “You can pick  
it up with this and throw it into the trash can when you’re done. This is called a dustpan, by the way.” She places the plastic object next to where Moira had dropped the mud and dirt. “The trash can is in the cupboard beneath the microwave. That thing you just played around with,” she clarifies at Moira’s confused look.

 

 

 

But then the banshee nods and eagerly gets to work, happy to help Angela. She’s done so much more for her than anyone ever has, as far as she remembers, at least. And so she happily brushes away while Angela watches and then goes to water the plants she has scattered  
all over the house. During winter, she’d explained Moira once, it’s too cold for them outside and since she doesn’t want them to die, she takes them all inside.

 

 

 

Angela is starting to warm Moira’s heart  
against her will after a mere week and it scares her. She doesn’t want to be betrayed. It’s happened to her more times than she can count and yet Angela is so sweet and gentle with her that it’s suspicious. No human being could  
ever do that without claiming something for themselves after it all.

 

 

 

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chapter yay
> 
> i have no idea where this is going help
> 
> and im sorry for the weird layout i'll fix it as soon as i cannnn bear with me my laptop fucked up ugh


	3. drittens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> le angst in coming brace yoselves

Moira’s dozed off on the couch. She’d promised to keep the cottage in check as far as she can (silently, gesturing around to explain herself) while Angela would head for the next town to get groceries. She’d polished everything from top to  
bottom and left to right, she scrubbed the windows and cleaned the counters,  
sorted everything back into the shelf and place it belongs to, watered the  
plants and did the dishes (nearly dropping a plate as it slipped from her hand, but luckily enough, she managed to catch it) and she’s dusted off the bookshelves and every single fucking book in each  
fucking shelf.

 

 

Absolutely strained and overworked, Moira had fallen into the left side of the loveseat and with what little strength her body still held, she’d pulled the covers over herself and turned to the side and a long moment later, she’d been sucked into dreamland.

 

 

When Angela came home from a long and thorough shopping tour (stopping every ten minutes to greet and chat with whoever passed by her – and had a cup of tea at a friend’s house – she was absolutely stunned by the view that had greeted her.

 

 

Not a single particle of dust anywhere to be seen. Moira had done well.  
Extraordinary well. All that Angela has taught her in little bits over the two  
and a half weeks that she lives here has been done and not just done, but done  
with extreme care and precision. Quite something for an old lady like Moira.  
Angela’s slack-jawed when she brings her goods into the kitchen and places them  
down on the neatly wiped counters, almost feeling bad for even walking on such polished tiles.

 

 

She sneaks over to Moira and leans down to examine her face. Those odd  
markings twitch in her sleep when her face knits. “Moira,” she whispers, dragging a knuckle down her sharp cheekbone. “Thank you.” She does not believe that she hears her, but maybe the words manage a way into her dreams. Angela smiles and straightens up, deciding to leave the bags on the counter until tomorrow. She won’t unpack them  
now and risk Moira jolting awake. She looks so peaceful. Exhausted, but  
peaceful.

 

 

The blonde signals Muffin to follow her and she tiptoes up the stairway,  
trying her best to avoid any creaking, failing as the wood groans beneath her  
weight. She grits her teeth, looks towards Moira, but the banshee hasn’t moved, not even stirred. She must be truly tired.

 

 

While she undresses and slips under the covers, she thinks about how she  
can make it up to Moira, get her to rejoice – but she knows too little about her to think of something that may please her. Perhaps, Angela thinks with an amused grin on her lips, a new cloth for her to pull over her mouth, a more modern one, not that rug. Perhaps a scarf of hers? No, that  
would be cruel to do to her, it would only refresh her memory of whatever really happened that day. And Angela doubts she simply thought “hm, it would be better if I stopped wailing around and displeasing everyone around me, let me put something on to keep me silent” and put it on. Something had to have triggered it, if not even forced it.

 

 

And she doesn’t want to remind Moira. Not after she’s suggested to wash the cloth. But Moira has declined, apparently she’s too afraid of taking it off. Maybe it’s not even because she wants to keep herself silent, as she has dared to tell Angela her name – aloud. Perhaps it’s because of a gruesome wound that  
she doesn’t want to show anyone. Maybe a mutilation?

 

 

She decides to simply ask Moira about what she’d like in the morning. It would be easier to find out what she likes if  
she started throwing suggestions at her and Moira could nod or shake her head  
in response than to simply give her something she might not even like.

 

 

It’s certainly something that Angela  
will like if she finally heads to sleep and so she pats the space next to herself, Muffin jumps up to lay beside her, the cold but soft fur pressed into her stomach and frontside. “Good night,” she whispers into her ear and pecks her head. An agreeing huff and the both of them start to doze off as well.

 

 

 

 

It’s an even bigger surprise to Angela  
than the one on the day before when she gets up and sneaks downstairs as to not  
to wake Moira in case she’s still asleep to – well, to not to see Moira laying on the sofa. She’s not in the kitchen, either. Her movements become frantic, Angela skits  
upstairs in case she may be in the bathroom. Emptiness, clean emptiness yawns at her. Glistening tiles. But no pretty and mysterious banshee. Nowhere to be seen. It is then that panic spreads in her chest and makes her fingers clammy  
when she skits back downstairs.

 

 

“Moira?”

 

 

The call she sends out isn’t responded  
to. The sheets are messy. The door is closed. The bags from yesterday are still  
on the counter. Everything is the same as the day before. Everything except for  
the lack of a silenced banshee. Muffin barks up at her, when she doesn’t respond to her, she whimpers and presses her snout into her calf. “Muffin, can you find her? Scent her?” Muffin looks  
up at her in confusion, acts as though nothing happened.

 

 

Angela swallows hard and starts to search in the most absurd places, beneath the sofa, checks her wardrobe, hell, she even checks the fucking microwave in case the banshee has tried to be funny and managed to somehow witch herself small and squeeze herself into the microwave. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And even though Moira never made a sound and even though Moira has never really done anything to change a lot, the cottage seems horribly empty and silent and dead.

 

 

Moira has won a special place in her heart in a way that Angela couldn’t describe if she had to - and Angela hasn’t guessed  
that she may just – leave. Without saying goodbye. Everything had been fine yesterday, had it not? She’d been peacefully asleep on her sofa after cleaning up the whole cottage … maybe, maybe she started to feel unsure about this whole thing, about living here, maybe she started to feel like Angela wouldn’t come back and had abandoned her when she woke up, maybe … maybe she started to feel like she doesn’t belong here.

 

 

Angela’s head starts spinning horribly, a  
headache forming and her face knits in worry and fear and confusion.

 

 

Against her will, tears collect in Angela’s eyes and she runs up to her room again, getting dressed for outside. Maybe she’s taken a walk outside without informing her. If she survived as long as she looks like she has dressed in those rugs that Angela still keeps in her closet in case Moira wants them back, she surely hasn’t frozen to death in socks and a hoodie and joggings that go past her knees, right? She can’t be dead, she can’t be GONE, she has to be somewhere –

 

 

She pulls her hat over her head and pulls the zipper of her jacket up to her chin before she grabs her keys and runs out into the snow. There are no footprints, or maybe they’ve been snowed in already … “Muffin,” she says and turns to the German Shepherd that stands next to her. She looks up at her good Mistress  
expectantly. “Moira. Look for her, find her, please …” Angela sniffs and wipes her tears violently. She can’t be gone, she just CAN’T …

 

 

Muffin whines and sticks her nose into the snow. Hope makes Angela’s chest swell when she begins to pad through the snow, but she stops after a few feet and just looks around helplessly. Maybe it’s been too long already. Has she left during the night? She must have, it’s barely seven in the morning and the sky is still pitch black and grey where clouds are tattered over the firmament.

 

 

Snowflakes catch in the entangled mess of Angela’s golden tresses. She sobs quietly, shushes herself in order to not  
worry Muffin. It’s too late, isn’t it? It’s too late. She’s lost her, she – she lost her. She lost her to who knows who and to who knows where. She sniffles and stares at the forest.

 

 

The forest. If Moira really is as afraid of villages and humans in particular as Angela assumes she is, she would have never gone towards the town on top of the mountain a mile from here. She would have run to wherever there is no civilization. Maybe Angela did something that has scared Moira. Maybe she’s hurt her by saying something. No matter what, she wants to find her. She has to find her. She can’t live without that quiet creature on her sofa, scratching Muffin’s ears and watching her cook and clean and listen to her every word attentively. She can’t lose her –

 

 

And so her knees buckle, her legs start to move, faster and faster as she runs towards the forest. She asks fairies if they’ve seen a banshee pass by. She asks the foxes, the birds, hopes for hints while Muffin snuffs around on the ground, attempting to pick up a trail. Tears run down Angela’s face in a never-stopping river all the while. Two hours later and too deep in the forest to find back out on her  
own, she slumps down against a tree, Muffin by her side. The canine expresses  
her mourning in soft whimpers and growls, letting Angela trail her gloved fingers through her fur. “We have to go back,” Angela croaks out, eventually. “We have to eat something. Think about it with a clear mind. But we’ll come back. I – I don’t want to give up.”

 

 

Muffin doesn’t understand her, but she whines in agreement to whatever Angela said and gets onto her paws as she watches Angela stand up as well. Together, they walk back the way they came from by helps of Muffin’s excellent orientation sense and some fairies that show her the direction to go.

 

 

 

 

They don’t find her in the next tour, nor in  
the tour after that. Angela decides to even ask around in town, just in case,  
to make sure that she hasn’t been wrong  
in assuming that Moira wouldn’t roam  
anything civilized. She’s been right, none of her friends have seen an oddly clothed banshee pass by. But where is she? Where could she have headed?

 

 

She stays home for the next two days, hoping and praying that she may  
have only taken a walk and managed to lose herself in the woods. She even begs  
to every god that ever existed in any mythology and in any religion that she  
may look as devastated as she had on the first day, none of that would matter  
if only her precious banshee would return healthily. She cries herself to sleep  
with Muffin being a huge teddy bear to always sit by her side and soothe her  
through the surprisingly hard time she’s going through. She cries when using the microwave. She cries when sitting on the  
couch. Everything is terrible. She misses Moira so much, even though she was  
barely there, only present with her body.

 

 

But there had been something about the banshee. Something oddly nice  
that Angela has relished in. She listened to her. She hasn’t argued with her, hasn’t had a heated discussion or a nice chat with her. She hasn’t drowned in  
self-pity, either. Maybe that’s what  
impresses Angela.

 

 

Whatever the reason, she misses her incredibly. Angela’s tears, however, slowly become less until she doesn’t cry anymore. It’s been six days since Moira went missing and Angela doesn’t believe she will come back anymore. She hasn’t accepted it yet, still wanting to find out why on earth she’s gone, but she tolerates it. She doesn’t try to find her in particular, not anymore. She looks out for her during walks (which she suddenly seems to take more often recently). She asks friends. But she doesn’t go back into the forest.

 

 

She’s too afraid of her own failure if  
she’ll try and not succeed in finding her.

 

 

She’s too afraid.

 

 

So she tries to accept it and tries to tell herself that she got lost.

 

 

But she hopes that she’ll find a way  
back nonetheless.

 

 

Because the banshee will always hold a special place in her heart.


	4. viertens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> le end of le story bye

Angela wakes as Muffin hops onto her bed, pawing at her side and pushing her snout into her shoulder to wake her up, woofing excitedly. She jolts, sighs in relief when she realizes it’s no more than her dog— but Muffin is persistent even when she strokes her fur, hoping to soothe her back to sleep. Maybe it’s just a dream that the mutt has had, though Angela isn’t sure if dogs can dream. 

“Shh,” she whispers, “quiet. Go back to sleep, please ...” But Muffin stays persistent, so much as to wake her interest. A happy woof follows upon her pushing her legs out from under the covers and getting up. “What is it, then?” Angela asks, patting Muffin’s head. 

She trots off, tail wagging behind herself. “Woof!” Is the answer to her question. Angela thinks she looks way too excited for it to be something regular, maybe she scented a visitor? Maybe someone got lost ... Well, Muffin is heading straight for the door and woofing at it, beckoning Angela to open it. The way she scrapes her paws against the floor makes it clear that she’s impatient.

A little confused, Angela opens the door a crack to peek outside. Through the gray, early morning, she can’t make any figure out. It’s foggy as it usually is during a time like this. There’s no snow falling for once, but her vision isn’t quite clear. 

Muffin woofs, darts past her and outside. “No!” Angela calls, “Come back, it’s too cold outside— I’m not going, Muffin, please come back ...” But the German Shepherd is persistent. Still. She furrows her brows when Muffin doesn’t listen and runs out into the snow-covered, foggy landscape. 

She sighs lightly, trying to figure out the canine’s motives while she decides to slip into her boots and put on her anorak. Hell, she’s still in her pajamas! But she needs Muffin back, first Moira, now Muffin? No, she won’t let that happen. Pulling her hat right over her ears and grabbing her keys, she stomps outside, pulling the door shut behind herself. 

Either Muffin found an injured animal or any other creature or something else caught her attention. But what? Angela squints. “Muffin?” She calls, shrinking into her thick jacket. “Muffin!” 

A woof that comes from the woods, echoing over the snowy field. Angela decides to head that way. By the time she arrived there, following the paw marks in the snow, it’s started snowing. Again. She sniffs, looks around. There Muffin is, a few feet further, happily licking snowflakes from her own fur. 

Maybe she’s just wanted to play? But that’s unthinkable, Muffin never woke Angela up to play with her before. And she’s never been so urgent about it. Angela’s still confused as Muffin leads her further into the forest, the light becoming less and the darkness more. 

The trees are like black, tall men surrounding themselves, they’re making Angela shiver and shudder in discomfort. She can only focus on Muffin, follow her to wherever she leads her. Maybe the trees are ghosts captured in wood, as some branches look like hands stretched out towards her, some nests birds have settled in look like eyes— or maybe Angela just doesn’t like the forest’s darkness. It’s so dim here, it’s cold and wet and her boots squeak on the muddy, wet ground that’s covered with old leaves and fresh snow. 

Muffin has been out a lot recently. Maybe Angela imagines it, but she assumes that Muffin still hopes to find Moira somewhere. The two of them had been ... rather close, if she may say so. Moira’s always had a hand in Muffin’s fur for weeks, always stroking her, always holding her. Except for when she slept— Angela recalls the evening before she’s found the cottage empty, lacking the odd domesticity of the banshee. 

Maybe she’s just gotten way too used to Moira that she took her presence as something natural, something that’s as sure as the sun would go up each and every morning. 

So many maybes. Angela furrows her brows as Muffin wags her tail, happily hopping through the snow and through the trees. Another excited woof. And she jumps around a corner, on top of — someone. Something. Angela can’t tell. 

She jogs up to Muffin and her eyes go wide when she recognizes the creature beneath the mutt. They’re so deep into the woods, how did Muffin even find her? So far away? She must have found Moira before, but she hasn’t told Angela, hasn’t shown her. 

The banshee looks unharmed save for a cut underneath her eye and her sleeve is torn off, claw marks on her bared arm. The joggings she’s given her don’t look like they’re in their best days, either, a little muddy and — there’s more cuts. She must have been attacked by what Angela loosely assumes to be a wolf. 

But she looks fine, at least she doesn’t whimper around in pain. In fact, there’s absolutely no sound coming from her, though Angela can tell she’s shocked by how her sockets are widened, more light seeping out than usually, and she’s absolutely frozen in place. 

“Moira?” Angela asks, staring down at the still unmoving banshee, tackled by a huge German Shepherd, laying in the snow— it would be a cute sight if it weren’t for the cuts and the circumstances to ruin it all. 

Moira shifts, finally, her bones creaking a little as she does so, hesitantly pushing Muffin off herself. The canine whines and buries her snout in Moira’s side, causing her to hiss nearly soundlessly and push her head away, this time, the action is less gentle. 

The blonde sinks to her knees, uncaring of her pajama pants getting soaked by the snow as it melts around her. “Moira, why did you leave? What happened?” No answer, as expected. At least that hasn’t changed. 

Worry and disappointment makes Angela’s eyes duller than usually, and Moira notices. She doesn’t like it. She doesn’t like the thought of being the reason to her unhappiness. 

So she looks down in silence, pondering whether or not to reply. She thinks that Angela of all people deserves to hear her voice and deserves her trust, but can she trust herself to not to hurt her on accident? No, no, she can’t. 

And so Moira lets herself drown on her own, without sharing what happened, shakes her head softly and gets up. It’d be better if she just — left. For real. Forever. She’s no good for Angela, has only caused her trouble thus far. It hasn’t been the reason she left, but now the feeling starts to seep into her bones, clammy, cold, uncomfortable. 

“Moira, please ... please tell me. Write it down if you don’t want to speak, but — please, I, I have to know what I did to cause you to leave —“ 

That catches the banshee’s attention. She tilts her head. Shakes her head. Angela’s nothing but confused at this point. “What do you mean, no? You won’t tell me?” Moira shakes her head again, draws her eyebrows together in a worried expression. She’s torn, should she dare muffle it against her gag or run? 

Seconds pass in which nothing happens. Muffin steps towards her again, she lets her. Angela doesn’t look mad. She looks concerned. “You should come back, Moira. Please. I—I’ll do my best to improve and do better, but please—I missed you. I missed you so much ... I’m sorry, I, I know I shouldn’t have pushed you so much ...” 

Moira listens, mind starting to spin with confusion. That doesn’t make sense. She didn’t leave because of that. She left because she heard something outside that woke her up and she’d meant to check if everything is alright. The forest had called for her to return, and so she had. It’d been like a dream, a very real one. 

She hasn’t been quite with herself when she left, she — got lead into a trap of the forest itself, circled by hungry wolves and — well, now she’s ended up here, defending herself poorly, but she’s alive and she’s carried the wounds off well. Most have healed during the time. Thing is, after fleeing from the wolves, she hasn’t found her way back to the cottage. 

But how is she supposed to explain that to Angela, with her own restriction of a gag, with — her lack of knowledge about the alphabet? 

Angela starts to cry, all of a sudden. This is the first time that she’s ever seen a human cry, wail, sob. She’s always thought that that’s a banshee’s job. She didn’t know any better. So it’s horrifying to watch and listen to the unsteady sobs. This isn’t like Angela, Angela is soft and sweet and loving and warm and not — not broken, not crying. 

For a moment, Moira is so shocked she fears that she may have turned Angela into a banshee and she’s ready to take her leave fucking quickly, afraid of consequences or similar, but nothing happens. Angela only moves closer and hugs her tightly and cries into her shoulder. “Please,” she whimpers out, “I missed you — please, come back ...” 

How horrible. Moira’s heart races in her chest, she swallows and nods slowly. Angela doesn’t seem mad, just confused and concerned. She hopes she can explain matters to Angela. 

And before she can stop her, Angela pulls the knot that keeps the gag around her head loose, relieving her of the horrible pressure of not being allowed to talk. 

Cold air hits her cheeks and chin and lips, she gasps in some air. Her jaw cracks, not used to the sudden motion. Another deep breath. She stares at Angela, still by her side, still in between her legs, holding her tight. “I missed you,” she whispers, over and over again, rubbing over her back comfortingly, nuzzling into her collarbone and throat. 

Such affection from a human being is horribly strange. 

Especially the touch of cold fingers against her cheek, thumb brushing over her cheekbone. Angela pulls away slowly, looks up at Moira. 

“You’re beautiful, you know that? You’re beautiful,” she says and plants a kiss to Moira’s jawline. “You’re gorgeous, Moira.” 

The banshee feels like she’s going to faint if she says that one more time. It’s unreal and — unbelievable. She must be dreaming again. But her touch is real, her voice is here, and so is Muffin, pawing at her thigh excitedly. And then lips skim over her own ones gently, carefully. 

It tickles at first, Moira wants to pull away, but it’s nice, in a way. She lets Angela do as she pleases, she lets her KISS her, she lets her stroke her cheek and sob into the kiss quietly. 

It’s nice and once Moira gets used to the concept of literally brushing her lips up against Angela’s, she kisses her back, carefully, shyly. A thousand fireworks explode in Angela’s chest, rise to her head, make her mind go blank. 

She’s high on the feeling of Moira’s lips, chapped and bitten bloody, but it’s good, it’s not like in those horribly sappy movies in front of the Eiffel tower and they don’t smell like roses and wine and perfume, they sit in the snow in a dark forest and they kiss carefully, not as forward as they do in the movies. 

“I think I like you a lot,” Angela breathes when she finally pulls away. Moira exhales a large cloud of smoke, clears her throat, coughs into her fist. Exhales again. “I’m,” she starts, voice weak and scratchy, low and dark. “not sure if that’s healthy.” 

Angela stares and listens in awe. “I think I love you,” she whispers, correcting herself. “I think I love you very much.” Moira looks up at her. “You— you shouldn’t, really.” And breaks out into a coughing fit. 

Her body bends and bows. Angela squishes her hollow cheeks, presses another kiss to her lips, careful as though Moira’s a fragile glass structure, so fragile that one breath too harsh might break her. “I missed you, Moira. I’ve been alone for a time longer than I can remember. Well, Muffin’s with me, but she’s not a familiar, you understand? She’s just a pet dog. Nobody to talk to, to share thoughts with and actually get a reply. In a way, you have been just like her, silent — but you understood, Moira, you understood me! You understand me. And I missed you a lot.” 

Moira looks at her and listens and sighs, “Why don’t you just hate me? It — it would be a lot more genuine than this pitying-missing-loving thing you do.” A silence full of shock. “How dare you ask me that? I — I said I love you, or at least like you way more than I should, if you don’t like the word love,” Angela finally musters, her voice feeble and quiet and soft. “I missed you, Moira.” 

She cradles the banshee in her arms again and this time, there’s nothing that Moira attempts to do to stop her. She sinks into the embrace, scratches Muffin’s head and lets Angela’s breath warm her throat. 

“Thank you, Angela.”

**Author's Note:**

> ahem yes, another thingy from me for you to enjoy  
> this is gonna be fluffy and smutty (eventually maybe i have no idea where i'm going with this)  
> um enjoYY  
> pls leave constructive criticism, i'm happy about a feedback about the content and my way of portraying as well !! help is always welcome throw it all at me please 
> 
> im gay for banshee moira
> 
> yay
> 
> aND I’M WAITING FOR THE HATERS TO HIT ME WITH THEIR FUCKING NOT CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM LIKE DONT JUST SAY ew this is shit WITHOUT EXPLAINING WHY OKAY JUST DON’T thank you  
> and i already know that i’ll start doubting my capabilities once they start flying in and i’ll DEPUBLISH AND E D I T IT ALL AND NO Y’ALL AIN’T WINNING WHEN TELLIN ME ITS BULLSHIT i’m gOnna rEpuBliSh whEn i’M satisfied anD nOt a SecOnd eArliEr and i’ll let you know that i’m not quite satisfied yet so i’m likely to edit it and republish it ,, 
> 
> stop me from continuing this please 
> 
> ugh and don’t just pass by to ruin my day by not saying what you don’t like about my story okay  
> please please please just don’t :,( explain why and i’ll consider fixing it ,, thank youuu bye
> 
> i wonder who even read this  
> thanks if you did man i love you


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